


Prelude to Parasite

by MisterGuppy



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterGuppy/pseuds/MisterGuppy
Summary: A prologue to Parasite (Ep8/S19) - set immediately before the shot of Serena and Bernie walking across the car park.





	

“Bernie’s here!”

Jason’s alarm call – better than any doorbell, caused Serena to nearly overbalance as she knelt to tie the laces on her ward creepers – not the most flattering of footwear but comfort was the priority when walking hospital corridors. She blamed the flush on her face on her knot-making efforts and not at all on the mention of a certain surgeon’s name and their imminent appearance on her doorstep.

Rising from her task, she glanced in the mirror to pat her hair and straighten her scarf, rolling her eyes in despair at her crimson face before taking a steadying breath as a sharp rap echoed down the hallway. Serena wondered now, exactly why she had agreed to Bernie’s suggestion of picking her up for work - not the easiest of cars to get oneself and one’s dignity in and out of. Quite how Bernie managed to fold those ridiculously long legs into the foot-well confounded Serena – but then, the thought of pale, smooth, muscled calves confounded her even more and the just receding crimson washed back up her neck making her pull tetchily at her scarf.

“Bernie’s at the door.”

“Yes – thank-you Jason! My decrepitude hasn’t yet affected my hearing!”

It was like being back at school – waiting for your best friend to call or the boy you wanted to be more than your best friend. Had there ever been a girl that she’d thought that about?  Whatever – it was a daft idea and tomorrow she’d definitely be driving herself into work with no thought to the inherent wrongness of sitting in a car where your backside was lower than your knees!

As Serena lifted her hand to the latch and pulled the door ajar, she vividly remembered why she’d agreed to this, where they’d been, what they had just done and, damn it, if that bloody blush wasn’t back like a rash.

“Come on Campbell, pull yourself together. You weren’t like this when you were fifteen so 51 is far too late to start – you silly old, lovesick … lesbian.”

“First sign of madness.”

 “What?!”

 “Talking to yourself.”

The Campbell eyebrow arched as she fully opened the door and then, it just as quickly softened when the eyes beneath took in the tall, pale vision before her - leaning against the jamb, hands in the pockets of (what Serena will forever refer to as) the whining or groaning coat, features relaxed - hinting at a grin – her gaze fixed on Serena’s mouth. Serena couldn’t help but smile in return. All tetchiness banished by the treat of seeing an unguarded Major making eye contact – and what eyes they were - looking cool and confident.   Serena was lost and incapable of resisting (resistance was futile) when strong hands pulled her close via the ends of her scarf – good job she hadn’t looped it round her neck, she thought as a warm, soft kiss was pressed to her mouth. Resistance was even more futile when your brain betrayed you by letting a sigh and, quite possibly, a whimper squeeze between locked lips.

If only the postman hadn’t chosen that moment to walk up the path to deliver the mail.

“Morning, ladies.” He grinned, and Dr Serena Campbell, 51, Holby City vascular surgeon, department co-lead and divorcee of this parish jerked back and damn it, if that blush didn’t return for an encore which somewhat took the chill out of the wintry smile she bestowed on him while holding her hand out for her mail.

“Don’t know what you’re finding so funny, Ms Wolfe”

“Umm – no laughter here, Fraulein. Not as much as a snigger or a smirk. No, no.”

Serena flicked through her letters, not needing to glance up to catch either the smirk or the barely supressed snigger.

“I do have to live here you know. I’m on the Neighbourhood Watch Committee for heaven’s sake!”

No disguising the denied snigger then or its coda.

“Bernie!” came the warning.

“They’ll be dusting off the ducking stool ready for the next AGM. Let me know if you need back-up. I’ve got previous with insurgent groups.”

It wasn’t in her nature to flounce but Serena’s pivot into the hallway to deposit the mail on the credenza was very possibly flouncing’s first cousin.. Calling her goodbye to Jason, she pushed her key into the lock and backed out of the hallway – straight into Bernie, who for some reason, was now standing astride the mat with her hands gripping each side of the doorframe. The warmth of the contact brought the return of that pesky blush and with it a tremble in her fingers as she tried, unsuccessfully, to turn the lock. A simple everyday task one would think, but made impossible by a breath against her left ear and, hang on, was that a tongue, warm and moist? Dear Lord, the blush – what was it about the word moist? _Ocular cunnilingus_ the Campbell brain momentarily mused – was that even a thing?

“Just give in to it.”

And long fingers wrapped around her own, to steady the key in the lock. Since when did things being in things become so suggestive? The lock was soon fettled but Bernie did not relinquish her hold, instead, she wrapped both their right arms around Serena’s waist and pulled the shorter woman back firmly against her body. Serena knew not to resist - that way lay futility  - (plus the ear sex was proving rather distracting) this was, after all, Bernie ‘I probably have the edge in that department’ Wolfe, and besides, the Treasurer of Gloriana Gardens Neighbourhood Watch was completely obscured from the view of possible curtain-twitchers by a Big Macho Army Medic and her ‘whining or groaning’ outerwear. She acknowledged the blush as a permanent feature and commended her own aplomb as it appeared to spread south in pursuit of full body coverage following an:

“I more than like you.” being, well, ‘syrup-ed - hey let it be a day for new verbs - into her already lavished left ear – the right one will be getting jealous – was her surreal thought promptly followed by the term _MILF_ drifting unbidden into her consciousness. Serena shivered, - nothing new there - but then she realised that this was not from desire but from a sudden chill and her surreal old brain struggled to process the loss of warmth until:

“Spit-spot, Fraulein – AAU won’t run itself” was barked from the bottom of the path and she turned to see the pale vision holding open her garden gate.

There was that smirk again

Good God, she was too old for this and reaching out to the door handle for support before her trembling knees gave way, she momentarily closed her eyes. How did she even know terms like _MILF_? When she reopened them she at least, knew that she’d found the definition.

“You’ll be the death of me Bernie – bloody – Wolfe!”

“Life in the old dog yet, methinks.”

Bernie waited patiently for Serena to push through the gate and then was there to open the passenger door – chivalrous to the core - until the moment just before Serena was about to bob down (to an unreasonable depth) - when she was pinned against the car and soundly kissed, and as further acknowledgement of resistance and its already touted futility, Serena’s surreal old lesbian brain decided that complicity was the best policy and she returned Bernie’s kiss, her fingers tangling in the messy blond curls. The blush, the sigh, the whimper – back they all came for an encore.

The car horn fanfare jerked both their heads back and Serena took the opportunity to slide, almost gracefully and definitely gratefully, into the low-slung seat. Dr Chivalrous sighed, smirked, tucked her hair behind her ear and passed her the seatbelt. Ensuring that the Campbell mac was in no danger of being trapped, she pushed the door shut.

Out of the corner of her eye, Serena watched Bernie slip (most elegantly) into the driving seat and place her long fingers around the gear lever – perilously close to Serena’s thigh.

“Smirking again, Soldier! Eyes front and drive.”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am.”

It was inevitable that the gear hand would carelessly overreach to land on Serena’s thigh.

“Well two can play at that game, Wolfe” and she covered Bernie’s fingers with her own and pulled their joined hands north. What a fabulous idea it had been to have the Major drive her to work – if only to see those brown eyes widen while remaining steadfastly on the traffic ahead. There was something to be said for army discipline.

On arrival in the car park, Serena girded herself to defy gravity and emerge from the ridiculous car, vowing to re-inflate the gym ball when she got home in an effort to become reacquainted with her core muscles. The Major had abs, for heaven’s sake, (no wonder she could bob in and out of the dyke-mobile with such ease) – a veritable six-pack! She knew because she’d counted, smoothing her hands up the long torso while Bernie’s fingers reached …   … for her hand . Remembering where she was, Serena pulled away scalded by her recall and an urgent need to adjust her scarf. Bloody blush, bloody brain, bloody Bernie Wolfe and her bloody smirk.

 

 

 


End file.
